It’s just a castle the people say it’s old and weird another says but this castle has secrets and and pain in it one of war love and betrayal oh how shameful it is to look but it is just a castle so theses nothing to do just learn from this and remember it doesn’t look as it seems

tw: religion ✝️

My dress is wrinkled from months of disuse The footprints I left here long ago have faded now I am a moth in a butterfly sea Standing out though I be rusted and brown

Is there room for me in these walls? I’ve changed shape since last I fit here I recount verses memorized in youth Fighting to dispel this awful fear

He is mighty to make a place for me All those with clean hands may enter in Though my hands be filthy as of yet It is here I find the soap and wash-basin

Nothing of the library was terrifying in the sense her mother described. The entry door was carved with flowers and vines, coated in golden shimmer. The arch at the very front read, ‘welcome to the Willis Walls’, with fading blue-grey paint. The building was old, but not grimy and decayed like she had expected.

Emilianas mother—a woman who knew very much of their small town, would always tell her daughters stories. Fairytales of magical carpets and horses made of clouds. Tales of cursed princess and evil dragons. And in the little town far from anything magnificent, Emiliana grew up with wonder.

They would go on hunts for faeries and visit forgotten temples of the ascended. They explored together every nook and cranny of their ordinary town. The one place her mother never allowed her to go was here. But she was not here anymore to stop Emiliana.

Her hand rested on the door knob, a golden rose that was too warm for the snow falling down. Every time Emiliana tried turning the knob, her mothers voice came like a whisper.

‘Never go near that place’ her mother had warned her the first time she told Emiliana of the library. ‘There are terrible things locked in their for a reason.’

But terrible is just what Emiliana was looking for.

Emiliana knew not to tempt magic. Her mother, as much as she was fond of the extraordinary, saw what real magic could do. Not pink dancing elephants and flying paper planes, but real magic from the ascended and all those who roamed these enchanted lands. It destroyed mortals. Emiliana always believed her mother saw more than she told.

Finally, Emiliana opened the door.

She was surprised by the warm rush of air that brushed her skin as she stepped in. No one, that she was aware of, heated this place. It was vacant for—well she didn’t know for how long.

The library’s walls were shades of blue with painted gold flowers and branches, stretching towards the spherical glass ceiling. Rows and rows of shelf’s filled with dusty books and lines the walls, each seeming to be on the brink of collapse. And though the place was warm, chills ran through her fingers. She felt like invisible eyes followed her every step.

Emiliana didn’t know what to expect. The only other person who knew if this place, was gone. But she believed if she could get closer to her mothers past, she could piece together what happened last spring. Who killed her.

Her heart races as she walked does the isles of books, overwhelmed by the amount. If whatever her mom feared was in one of these books, it would take a century to find it. And Emiliana was not born with half the patience of her mother.

She picked up the first book she saw, the only one out of place on the floor.

The cover was pink leather, with silver words. It read, ‘The Ballad of the Cursed.’

The name felt familiar, but Emiliana couldn’t remember why.

Then, through the thick silence, she hears a voice.

“Finn” a soft voice whispers. The whispers echoed though the empty library like a ghost. “Your little book worm came back.”

Emiliana spun around, nearly losing her balance in the process. How had she not noticed the two figures standing behind her?

The girl, whose voice had seemed to fill the room, regarded Emiliana with a mix of curiosity and a hint of resentment. Her appearance was like that of a porcelain doll, with smooth, pale skin and striking red eyes. Yet, there was an unsettling quality to her sweet, innocent facade.

The boy beside her on the other hand, was the complete opposite. Where she was soft, he was sharp and cold. They shared similar red eyes, but while hers were round and welcoming, his were the shade of bringing rage. His stare showed that too, for a moment.

"Oh, what do we have here?" he mused, his steps closing the distance between them. Emiliana instinctively retreated. "Is this her sister? Daughter? It's hard to tell with the passage of time."

Emiliana felt her heart pang as their eyes scrutinized her every move.

“Who are you?” Emiliana asked, her voice coming out like a whisper.

The boy and girl exchanged a glance, as if taken aback by her question.

"So, she never spoke of us," the girl said, her voice laced with bitterness. Even her soft eyes couldn't hide the venom in her gaze. "Of course not. Sera always liked to play the part of the sweet little hero."

“You knew my mother?” Emiliana asked. She knew that moment that these two were the dangers her mother warned her of. But they looked to young to even be around when her mother was her age.

The corner of the boys mouth twitched upwards. “My sister and I were unfortunate enough to cross paths with her here and there.”

Emilianas mouth opened to protest but she thought of it unwise. Whatever the pair were, they were far from mortal.

“How did you know my mother?” Emiliana opted to ask instead.

He responded with a smile that showcased his unnaturally perfect teeth. "She's the one who imprisoned us here."

Emiliana was left without words. Her plans to look for any help in the library dissipates. Because the thing her mother warned her more than the library, more than magic, were the characters from her bedtime story.

The Cursed Twins – Emiliana had always thought of them as mere fairytales. But now, gazing upon their unchanged faces, there was no denying that these two were the very figures from the tales, and they had not aged a day.

Chandelier swinging Merrymen singing Stairs in ivory and ebony Everything you would dream opulence to be Waiters with hors d’oeuvres Seeing only the richest people you’ve heard Outside pillars of white The area around, an aristocrats delight Out front a large lake Not even a leaf to take Manicured grass Nobody dressed crass In front horses and buggy Cool breeze negates the muggy What a wonderful sight to see On the outskirt of this Victorian city

Dead at the center A cigar box grand edifice Chrome shined relic drowned By zeros and ones

I walk these burnt umber tiles Under the blueness of fluorescents Through jungles of dumb canes Tip-toeing around ghosts of Orange Julius

From big boxes half empty Past shadow boxes of retail past Side stepping kiosk eruptions, Searching (no I don’t want a shoe shine) Questing (gummy grapefruit yes please) Crusading for my own Holy Grail A pair of jeans that fit

This one won’t surprise you This homage has been done countless times By thousands others Yet you will find it sincere

She grows from the ground Like an inverted plant With bones of metal And no leaves at all

You can see her from afar But her majesty only appears from near Even more from under it She is so tall and magnificent

Some have tried to copy her To create smaller versions But nothing compare To the original

She is more than a monument She is a symbol A flag of pride From the city’s inhabitants

She is standing from more than a hundred years And will continue to do so For so many years to come Casting her immense shadow

Tall and elegant Raising above all View of the future Nothing so small

Strong and stable Built to withstand Solid and able Sink in quicksand

Withered yet yielding Always to stand Skyscraper building Reaching Devine hand

Windswept and leavened A beautiful sight Elevators to heaven Glistening sunlight Tessa🦋

The grandest of buildings One built only for gods A temple of such majesty Only the finest material Gold, emeralds, diamonds and silver Only for the one true god We adorn the building in the lavish materials Yet we live in rags The priest live with fine clothes We live like paupers But god will provide for all our needs The building is for the true god Or perhaps…. It’s the temple of the false gods

Works of many hands Monuments to royal lines Names long forgotten

thousands of notes were learned here.

degrees with honors were earned here.

the days were long, spent in song;

sonatas would soar along the fourth floor,

the midnight oil was burned here.

years have I aged since I played on this stage

…yet it isn’t strange to return here.